


Triumvir, Apparently

by rikkitikki



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3268808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikkitikki/pseuds/rikkitikki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Adaar doesn't sleep well, but it wasn't until the Iron Bull showed up that it became a genuine problem. Bull wants to know why. Dorian is the unfortunate soul caught in the crossfire.</p>
<p>And Varric is already roughing out "Intrigue of the Inquisition". You know, just in case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Dread

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly canon-divergent m!mage!Adaar (Orlesian flavor, so imagine a bad French accent all the way), tags will be updated, and the explicit rating is _totally_ going to be earned. Hang with me, guys.

Talan is no stranger to nightmares. Some of his oldest memories, in fact, involved sobbing into his mother's tunic while she rubbed at his horns, the sheets black and scorched underneath his fat baby fists, the word _Saarebas_ one he would never hear until somewhere in his mid-teens. His father had them too, she said, when he was still with them - thrashing and crying, his fits had been violent enough that his mother had set up a bedroll across the room so he wouldn't hurt her in his panic. But he had learned to tolerate them over the years, more or less, and though they wouldn't ever stop, Talan would learn to tolerate them too. She promised it.

Becoming the leader of the Inquisition - the _Herald of Andraste,_ out of Chantry earshot - hasn't changed that. He's learned the incenses and teas that make it possible to actually get a functional amount of sleep, spends his time meditating before bed, but he'll always have the nightmares. The only thing that's changed is the content.

Sometimes they're dull, almost mundane; a bear with a head wider than he could fit his arms around ripping his entrails out, or sitting down with a drink at the Herald's Rest and gurgling a scream through blood and foam and poison, his throat dissolving on itself as the rest of the tavern watches on. Those are the easy ones. Sometimes he stumbles through the Fade with whispers on his heels - sometimes his temptors come directly to him to play on his insecurities and croon empty promises, wailing in outrage when he swats them away and hides deeper in the endless fog, waiting for when he'll wake up. Drenched in cold sweat, his heart hammering, he'll finally - but briefly, only briefly - be safe.

Tonight's nightmare is different. He wakes up half of Skyhold with his screaming, he's sure, but no one says anything about it when he drags himself down to the kitchens the next morning, dead-eyed and exhausted. It's better than last time, when Cassandra had slammed into his room in her nightclothes, her sword drawn and ready. He'd gotten a hell of a scolding for not warning them about his _condition_ earlier on, but their people had always had a sort of sympathy for him afterwards. Talan still isn't sure whether or not he's flattered, but being slid an extra roll with his breakfast sure as hell doesn't hurt.

"Morning, Boss. Rough night?" Talan bounces lightly in his seat when the Iron Bull drops in the one beside him, jarring him out of his moody train of thought. (He'll never like being _the little Qunari_ between the two of them.) Bull is bright and heady as ever to contrast Talan's sour mood, and the mage can't help the slightly withering look he sends back, swallowing a mouthful of sweetroll. Bull just raises his eyebrows, a not-quite-but-almost smile on his face. "That bad, huh?"

"You could say that." Talan's accent is lightly Orlesian, which always seems a point of fascination for nobles. How wonderful a contrast, he's sure, to see such a cultured tongue in such a _savage_ head. Their disappointment at finding out he was brought up in a rural ghetto is always palpable. "It happens from time to time. Nightmares."

Exhausted as he is, Talan doesn't have the presence of mind to snap himself into shape around Bull - around a _Ben-Hassrath,_ and Bull has to notice. Talan doesn't care, sopping up last night's bronto stew with his roll in sleepy sweeps, stuffing the soggy mess into his mouth with a grumble. Normally he's careful in Bull's presence, back ramrod and expression as flat as he can make it, all business in dangerous, quiet times like these. This is where you get the kind of information that could ruin someone - dig your teeth in and tear them apart, make you love them for it, and he won't be some easy mark for the Qun. ( _Saarebas._ ) Bull is charming in a rugged sort of way, but Talan wasn't born a sucker. Whether or not Bull's a threat, he won't let himself be drawn in and gamble on the spy's intentions.

"One of the recruits shit his breeches when you started screaming. Nearly took his own hand off trying to draw his sword before Cullen stopped him." Now _that_ earns a little smirk on the Inquisitor's end, tired eyes still in his soup. Bull leans one thick arm onto the table, and not for the first time, Talan imagines what it would feel like around his throat. Mercenary work shook the pearl-clutching right out of him, and he knows what he likes, what he wants. Accepting that means he can deny himself more easily.

"Should've heard him wringing his hands about 'the divine Herald's safety'."

"The towheaded elf?" Bull grunts assent, taking the roll Talan offers without a word. Just because he doesn't trust the potentially deadly Qunari spy doesn't mean they can't be cordial. "He's desperately in love with me, I think. More the _idea_ of me than anything substantial, but what can you do? Hazards of being a holy idol's holy errand boy."

"Nice title. You should run with it."

"Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? _Herald of Andraste_ sounds so... pretentious." Something twinges in his chest when Bull laughs, chuckling when Adaar slaps him away for going for another of his rolls. The Inquisitor pushes it out of his mind. "High and mighty, even. It works for the publicity angle, but then you have sweet little Chantry boys and girls lusting after you under the guise of _holy devotion._ It's ridiculous."

He soaks up the last of his stew, pushing the plate of rolls over to Bull, _finally._ The last chunk of meat is thick and fatty and _divine,_ melting in his mouth as he holds the moment, savoring it. Bull doesn't speak until he opens his eyes again, watching him with something like amusement.

Something like it. Talan could swear it was something else in that instant he first looked, Bull's expression flitting into place between his lashes. It sobers him, and he fixes the man with a guarded look.

"You didn't ask about the nightmares."

"Was I supposed to?" It's a tonal shrug, but Talan stays sharp on him as Bull swallows half a roll in one bite. Something's shifted between them, back into that wary place they usually inhabited with each other - Talan bristling, Bull acting like he doesn't notice. "Dream crap is Solas' thing if you want interpretations. I'm not digging into something that messy without a damn good reason."

Talan tsks, pushing himself up from the table. He sways dangerously on his feet for a moment, pretends he doesn't notice. "You're a _spy,_ Bull. Digging is what you're good for. Everyone asks, everyone wants to know. The people who don't? They just think they already know."

Bull just... shrugs, neutral, and it's _infuriating._ Be snotty, be cold - be anything but nonchalant, but Bull just lets it roll off his shoulders, shearing off another mouthful of roll. "You want to tell me? Tell me. You don't? Don't. If you want someone to fall all over themselves worrying about you, find a Chantry boy."

Later, Talan will regret storming off as obviously as he does. If Bull's at all embarrassed by the scene the Inquisitor makes, he sure as hell doesn't show it.

___

_The worst part is, he knows it's another nightmare. He knows what's going to happen. He knows he's helpless to stop it._

_He's in the remote parts of Orlais, far from the decadence of Val Royeaux and its Game - not Emprise du Lion, but somewhere just as snowy and forgotten. Talan knows the steps he takes from his parents' tiny shack on the outskirts like they've been carved into him, and he knows if he tried, he could still recite exactly how many bricks pave the way from his doorstep to the city square. He knows this because he knows where he's going already, even if he doesn't want to - his feet are small as he sets them in the middle of every brick, sixthhand clothes hanging like tents on his Qunari-slender frame. He's bigger than the other children just being what he is, but smaller than he should be, he knows that much; his papa had said it offhand once, _I was a foot taller at his age_ before his wife had shushed him. That's fine though, he doesn't mind being small. Surrounded by humans and elves, he's never noticed._

_Now, lucid in that hazy-thick way where he's powerless to really change anything, he notices. Like clockwork, he reaches up to tug at one of his horns. They're still growing in, they're sore, but he's terribly proud of them already for the way they curl back along his head, fitted snug against his skull. His papa says they're a handsome set, and the compliment still burns him up inside with giddy pride._

_Now, he's walking to the city square because his momma went there earlier. Their elven neighbor had rushed over and pulled her into another room while Talan read one of his papa's books, and even through the walls, he had heard the frantic whispering - his papa's name, his momma's gasp, the immediate clatter as she grabbed at her cloak. She and the elven woman had hurried out the front door, but not before his mother had made him promise promise **promise** to stay at home and be good. Wait for her, she'll be back soon, nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong._

_The moment he asked if he could play with her hand mirror - her most prized possession, something he was absolutely forbidden to touch - and got a distracted _yes, of course you can darling, just stay here,_ he knew something was wrong. Just three days prior his papa had ruffled his hair and said he was too clever for his own good, much too clever, and after today, the words will haunt Talan for the rest of his life._

_Talan walks to the city square because that's where his momma went with her friend and her barely-contained panic, even if he fights his own dumb childlike dread by counting the bricks again. Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight--_

_He smells smoke, but it doesn't smell like cooking smoke. Is something on fire? He stubbornly keeps his head down and counts bricks thirty-nine through forty-two, chewing at his nails now that his momma isn't here to slap his hand for it. Terrible habit, sure, but at least he's grown out of sucking his thumb, his papa had said, and he'd been proud then too. The smoke smell grows stronger as he closes in on the town itself, quiet and dumpy and so very rural, not that he knows there's anything different out there._

_There were ninety-six bricks on the path between his doorstep and the city square. Even now, wild dread climbing into his skull with every new step, Talan can't help himself from counting them._

_By seventy, he can hear shouting from ahead, where everyone seems to be. It's not shouting like they do at festivals or celebrations - it's loud, angry, nearly yelling. Talan only looks up through his lashes, weaving around buildings and debris, still counting. Seventy-three, seventy-four, and he pushes past an elven girl not much younger than him. She tries to catch his sleeve, tries again with an urgent whisper of _Talan,_ but he keeps going. Seventy-nine, eighty. When he reaches the edge of the crowd, they part easily for him not only because he's strong, but because they fear him, although he won't realize that until many years later. The adult hands that try to pull him back come with harsh whispers trying to warn him away, the nicer villagers who talked to momma without sneering and met papa's eyes like he was a man instead of a monster, but he's still stronger than them, and he walks this path like a condemned man to the gallows. Eighty-three, eighty-four. He hears his momma's screams and slides his thumb into his mouth, counting the steps._ _The smoke smell is sickening now, thick and colored with burnt hair. Momma is sobbing, _Kadan_ ripping out of her in awful keens; he can see her through his lashes too, and the way she's crumpled onto the elven woman half her size would be funny in any other situation. He laughs a little now, and it sounds thick in his ears, almost wet. Inside, he's screaming._

__No,_ he thinks. _No, not again, no more, Maker please. Don't look up.__

_He looks up. His papa's body must nearly splinter the wooden post they've hung him from just by his weight - he's a broad Qunari, used to be a soldier under the Qun, and even mutilated and burned almost beyond recognition he looks imposing, the crowd leaving a wide circle underneath him in case he falls. Between seeing the corpse and glancing down to the gruesome trophies before them, where a tongue, a set of eyes, a burnt braid, a set of genitals, and his papa's beautiful horns are laid out across a rough woolen blanket, he feels wet, cloying heat through his smallclothes as he pisses down his leg._ _It's ninety-six bricks between his doorstep and his father's corpse. He counts every single one as he rushes forward with a shrill scream of _papa,_ tearing away from grabbing hands to gather up his beautiful, beautiful horns._

Talan doesn't wake with a scream because this isn't a screaming dream. This is a sobbing dream, knees pulled to his chest as he sits in a puddle of cooling piss.

\---

He's not proud to admit he still pisses the bed sometimes, but nobody's said anything about that either. Maybe they know better, or maybe they just pretend they don't know it's him. Either way, he funnels the soiled laundry down the chute he had Dagna put together for him and washes himself down with an icy cold rag, pulling on a spare nightgown that hangs off of him like a tent. He focuses on the way the fabric flutters whenever he moves instead of scratching at his skin like sixthhand rags, heading down to the wine cellar for a drink. Two drinks. Maybe six. Maybe enough where he just plain blacks out, sleeps like the dead. It's not an indulgence he allows himself very often, but the idea of trying to lie down with his papa's gaping corpse still behind his eyes is slightly unbearable.

Of course, he has a dagger with him. People don't expect that from a mage, but even if he can summon magic without his staff, there are ways to prepare against that - those preparations don't work so well for four inches of steel, he's found. He keeps his hand on the hilt all the way through Skyhold's darkened halls, careful to avoid the areas where people might still be awake. Solas' chamber is one of them, but he's doubly silent when slipping past Cassandra's quarters and triply so when he skirts Leliana's territory; it reminds him of being a child sneaking to the cupboard after dark, but people don't have to know about this.

At least, most people. He's down in the dusty cellar and two solid swigs into some godawful Qunari brew before he hears the cellar door behind him. By the time Dorian makes it down and begins passing over the shelves, Talan is leaned back against the wall behind him, alerting the other mage with a loud throat clearing that nearly has Dorian jumping out of his skin.

" _Vishante kaffas--_ " Dorian whirls on his heel, hand brought up instinctively before he recognizes the Inquisitor. He sighs then, a dramatic whole-body thing, the flames in his palm snuffing out as he fixes Talan with a _look._ "If you value your eyebrows, try a _hello_ next time. Does wonders."

"It's under advisement." Talan's Orlesian accent is clipped, aforementioned eyebrows rising. "Didn't Leliana ban you from the liquor stocks?"

"Verbally. I proceeded to demand the official paperwork on this alleged ban, signed and ratified by your advisors and... well, _you._ " Dorian picks a bottle off the shelf seemingly at random, but Talan knows that it's Tevinter from glancing at the label. He takes another swig from the Qunari swill while Dorian finds the least dusty crate in the room to sit on, twisting the cork out with a little sparkle of magic under his fingers. "Don't look at your paperwork, by the way. There's an Orlesian mint somewhere down here that I'm _dying_ to have."

Talan can't help but laugh a little, finding a barrel of some fruity elven brew to sit on. It's probably one of the only things in here that can support his weight. "Lucky man. I wasn't planning on handling paperwork for at _least_ another couple of days." The drink is kicking in now, acidic burn in his gut turning to a sort of numb warmth. He imagines a candle in his chest flickering just below his heart, trying to warm it. "What brings you down here at this hour, dear Dorian? Drinking away your sorrows?"

"Is that what this is? And here I thought we were sharing some quality time together." Dorian's come down here with a book, Talan notices. By the binding and the sheer thickness of it, he assumes it's some sort of dreary tome on magic or history or somesuch. Scholar types, they enjoy those books. "I came down here looking for a little solitude, but being that you're not one of our dear spymaster's avian ensigns, I suppose you can stay. Try not to shit on my books, I hate that."

"Also under advisement."

"Charmed." Dorian smothers the last syllable with the bottle, and not for the first time, Talan is a little intimidated by the way Dorian can knock back a quarter of Tevinter whiskey without flinching. He's also a little charmed himself, but he smothers that with his own bottle, teeth clicking at its lip as he watches. He knows what he likes - he likes big strong men like Bull or Cullen that could easily pin him down and have their way, and he likes men like Dorian, pretty little things that are every bit as dangerous as any brawny soldier. He also thinks that Dorian likes being admired, if the way he tilts his head and bares _just_ a little more of the sweet curve of his throat as he swallows is anything to go by.

He's not expecting what Dorian says next, eyes half-lidded. That doesn't detract from how sharp they are as they drag over his face, the ragged stumps where his horns used to be.

"You're setting off for Val Royeaux tomorrow on Montilyet business, last I heard. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Shouldn't you quit eavesdropping, Dorian? It's anything but attractive."

"A little bird told me, in fact." Dorian shifts forward, book set aside, bottle set between his knees. "Literally. One of Leliana's crows didn't have its letter attached securely. Don't worry, it's off to whomever it was intended for - but that doesn't change my point. Or my attractiveness, thank you."

Talan settles his head against the wall with a slow exhale, a sigh. Dorian is kind enough to wait as long as it takes for the Qunari to find his words, and after a time, Talan hears pages turning. He plots out the conversation to come in his head, finds the answer that would lead to less than desirable questioning, discards them. Dorian can do this much in a second, but that's because he grew up in the bosom of Tevinter's nobility, not some hick village in Orlais wastes. It takes Talan longer.

"...I can't sleep. I usually can't, but tonight was worse than usual."

"So you've come to drink yourself to sleep. Solid plan, even if it has its drawbacks." Talan looks up, meets Dorian's eyes in a silent moment of acknowledgment - they're both drunks, and they know they're both drunks. There's no room to look down on anyone here. "Don't tell me you were planning on sleeping down here? At least smuggle that back to your room before it soaks in, those stairs can be hellish. Consider putting in a nice ramp instead."

"Again, under consideration." Talan makes a show of considering, glancing at the stairs with raised eyebrows and a thoughtful look, and Dorian chuckles into his drink. He sets it aside again, turning back to the book in his lap. The Inquisitor lets the silence stretch for a time, the two of them just existing comfortably in one anothers' space as he considers his next question and how best to frame it. Bull's nonchalant dismissal hangs in his head even as he says, "You're not going to ask? What it was."

"Mm, no." Dorian licks his thumb when he turns the pages. Has he always done that? "And they say that _I'm_ the vain one. What's your business is yours, just as my business is my own. I offer you the same courtesy I expect for myself when it comes to personal matters."

It's not said harshly, just absent, nonchalant - normally it's infuriating, but right now it just feels scathing, scolding. Of course not everyone is fascinated with his issues, he doesn't know when all the attention got to his head; Talan drops his eyes and ducks his head a little, chewing absently at his nails. He's always a little fragile after nightmares from his childhood, and maybe Dorian picks up on that, because he hears the slide of parchment and the book shutting. A moment later, he feels Dorian's weight settle on the box to his right, the ambient heat of his body.

"Do you _want_ me to ask, Talan? I have little interest in prying where I'm not wanted, and even less in being lead." He knows Dorian is looking at him now, studying his face in one of these rare moments where the mask drops. His voice is terribly, painfully earnest. "But if you need to talk, I'll listen. Maker knows there's nobody else around to."

Dorian goes to correct the slip, _that isn't what I meant_ written all over his face before Talan interrupts, slumping over to set his head on Dorian's shoulder. The mage tenses for a moment underneath him, but when Talan goes to pull away with an apology, Dorian tips his head to keep him there. There's another stretch of silence, this one longer - Talan enjoys the contact like a starving man with bread, a little surprised by his own unwillingness to pull away. He needs this, he realizes wearily; he needs Dorian.

It's ridiculous. It's not sexual in the least either, and although this man is lovely and dangerous, Talan's sure their relationship is something different, their sphere is shifting. His voice is anything but sultry when he manages words, quiet and small. He's never talked about any of his nightmares before, not the important ones. Not the ones that are actually _nightmares._

"When I was a boy, I lived - out in Orlais, far from Val Royeaux. My mother was Rasaan - a Tamassran interrogator for captives and to-be converts to the Qun. My father was Arvaarad. He had been discovered aiding Ba-Saarebas rather than taking them to be converted, as were his orders; when he was captured there were no Ben-Hassrath to deliver him to nearby, so he was to be held by Rasaan until they could collect him."

"In review: your mother was the female counterpart to the Ben-Hassrath, and your father was a rogue mage-handler?"

"More or less. There is nuance there, but I only know of what my mother told me." Talan shifts slightly, hears the barrel creak underneath him. "Rasaan was experienced, but Arvaraad - he was quite charming. And persuasive. He felt passionately about the treatment of mages, his will crumbling outside of the Qun's influence; he tried to save them, diverting them from plotted inception points. He spared many that way, and many unwilling converts traveling with them. An elven Qunari turned him in."

Dorian's listening with rapt attention, Talan notices distantly. "How tragically ironic," he drawls here. When Talan doesn't go on right away, Dorian nudges him impatiently, ignoring the Qunari's laughter. "Well, go on then, don't keep me waiting. What happened?"

"Well, he wore her down. Arvaraad wasn't an immediate concern when in the hands of a proven Rasaan, and so it took the Ben-Hassrath months to come collect. By that time Rasaan discovered she was pregnant - with me, obviously."

"Obviously. You're stalling, Inquisitor."

"You mispronounced 'building anticipation'. You have an idea how Qunari breeding programs work, don't you? Qunari don't have names, only ranks and strings of numbers and letters for genealogical purposes. Tamassran examine these and pair each Qunari with genetically acceptable partners. My parents weren't paired. I would've been considered... an unacceptable risk, most likely."

Dorian huffs. Even at this angle, Talan can see his eyes roll. "Oh good, just like home. Go on, go on."

"My mother didn't even know if she loved Arvaraad then. She said he had beautiful horns and a soft voice, but even then, he was just a rogue Qunari. But she loved me, and Arvaraad loved not being a mindless drone. When the Ben-Hassrath agent came, they hit him with the qaamek meant for my father and fled. Ran off into the ass-end of Orlais where no one would ever think to look for them, had me, became poor laborers. Half the village despised us." Talan pauses, sighing. "When I was a boy of eleven, they killed him - my papa. The village guards said it was a random homicide from a passing group of travelers, but we all knew who did it, and he wasn't a traveler. My mother became a paranoid shut-in. I spent most of my time working shit jobs for next to nothing. I didn't learn how to read until I was sixteen."

Dorian says nothing, just waits. The pressure of his head over Talan's is a little heavier, he's noticed.

"Eventually, I confronted my papa's killer - he admitted to it, and said there was nothing I could do. I broke his legs and took him to the woods. The wolves out in the edges of Orlais, they don't kill fast. They nibble at your edges, fingers and toes and face, and work their way in." The Inquisitor laughs a little, and Dorian says nothing. The silence is heavier than it was before, almost thick enough to taste. "I robbed his house, sold his things, took the money to my momma, kissed her goodbye. Ran off with a band of mercenaries the same day."

"And then...?"

Talan forces a laugh, pulling back from Dorian so fast the man nearly topples over, catching himself ungainly. "And then I bid you goodnight, leaving you to your liquor and thoughts. You spent every waking moment afterwards contemplating my somber beauty." Dorian pulls a face that has him laughing genuinely as he stands, nightgown practically swooping as he goes for the stairs.

"That's _it?_ " Talan's laughter gets louder, bouncing off the stone walls as Dorian's tone spikes with indignation. "Is this _really_ the thanks I get for being so compassionate? Go on then, you melodramatic nuisance, drink yourself half to death up there!"

He's almost certain he hears _na via lerno victoria_ drift down from the upper floor, but with the way the place echoes, it's impossible to tell. Instead he's left with a somber weight in his chest and a gut full of whiskey, the tip of his nose numb as he examines the bottle, the book cover, and finally his hands. He feels sick to his stomach, and even sicker when a pattern of knocks ring out against the stone. He knocks it back, and after some shifting (and a sore-sounding groan), Iron Bull finally slips out of the near-invisible little alcove behind the third furthest cabinet, careful not to knock any bottles down with his horns. Dorian must look terribly pensive, because after a moment, Bull nudges idly at his forearm.

"You did well, Dorian."

"Oh _good,_ " Dorian snarls back, standing up sharply - too sharply, in fact, because he sways dangerously on his feet. Bull considers steadying him, but it probably wouldn't go over well. He just watches Dorian center himself, book in one hand, bottle in the other. "If I'm to engage in _treachery,_ I might as well do it with grace, hm? What was the point of that? Selling out his history to Qunari scribes, _this is how the mighty Qun shaped the Inquisitor?_ You said you were going to _help_ him."

"I am." Bull doesn't rise to the bait, eye turning from Dorian's face to the far wall, idly examining the stonework. "He didn't give me what I need, but it's a good start. Think you could do it again?"

"As a matter of fact, no, I don't believe I can." He's frustrated, guilty. Bull sympathizes on some level, but he also knows that a little treachery is necessary sometimes. People don't always go for what's best for them. (He makes sure not to say that out loud, lest Dorian accuse him of trying to convert the Inquisitor to the Qun and reveal their hand.) Bull watches Dorian gather his things, which really means shuffling them awkwardly in his arms as he heads for the stairs. "I didn't leave Tevinter to get wrapped up in more petty politicking. I--"

He sways again, this time too far. Bull catches him with a hand at the small of his back, steadying Dorian as he tosses a disarmed look back. Damned _stairs,_ his face reads. Bull's is a little softer at the edges as he urges them up.

"Impatient 'vint." Dorian opens his mouth to respond, but being essentially pushed up the stairs means he has to focus on putting his feet in the right places. It's very difficult work with half a bottle of fine Tevinter whiskey in him. "You don't think we knew all of that already? Ten minutes after he got that mark on his hand, the Ariqun was already ass-deep in records looking for who he came from. Three years after he left, his mother turned herself in to the Ben-Hassrath for re-education. She's a Tamassran now. We even know who killed his father, and it isn't who he thinks it is."

Dorian doesn't seem to know what to say as they head upstairs. It's only halfway through the main hall that he stops, pulling Bull to a stop beside him. "So... why? Why all of this?"

Bull pauses for a moment, glancing down the hall. Towards the Inquisitor's room.

"The other night, when he was screaming? You could only hear _what_ from the war room. I was looking over our maps." He gives Dorian a nudge in the general direction of his own room, heading off in the direction of the tavern.

"I want to know why he was screaming my name."


	4. man yells at cloud: skyhold edition

It would've made sense if he'd screamed 'Bull,' but no - while Iron Bull pored over the Inquisition's maps, the Inquisitor had shrieked _Hissrad_ and thrown every damn thing off-kilter.

The higher ups back home had wanted answers. Their research had been impeccable, every step of Talan Adaar's life gone over with a fine-toothed comb from birth to Inquisition; the Ben-Hassrath had even brought his mother in for questioning, and she'd been absolute on never having taught him anything about them or their ranks. Hadn't wanted him to know anything about the Qunari that he didn't need to, she said, hadn't wanted him to attract attention. Some of their best had confirmed through multiple rounds of interrogation that she wasn't lying, and by all accounts, Talan had never had any interest in learning about the Qunari himself; he had never bought or carried books about them, according to a longtime member of his mercenary group (now a convert himself), and in all their travels he had never done any noticeable research, never asked anyone, never wrote letters. By all accounts, Adaar was perfectly content knowing nothing about his people - as Tal a Vashoth as one could get.

So how had he known? Bull had never revealed his rank. He wouldn't have considered Talan knowing it all that big a deal if he _had_ let it slip before now, but as it was, he and the rest of the Ben-Hassrath shared one concern: they didn't like unknown variables. Framed up with the way Adaar nearly jumped out of his skin whenever Bull so much as coughed in his direction - with that fear, that distrust bordering on outright paranoia - it passed from concerning to a genuine threat. Who's to say the Inquisitor couldn't snap unexpectedly, couldn't order Bull and his Chargers off Thedosian soil on pain of death? People here worshiped he and his Inquisition enough to push them out, particularly if they were pushing out another ox-man brute and his cronies.

Who's to say he couldn't have them all killed outright?

Bull likes the guy well enough, paranoia and Orlesian accent aside; he's clever, a bold fighter (unlike some mages, Talan will actually get _into_ the fight instead of standing a mile off at all times), even charming when he wants to be. But he doesn't put it past Adaar to potentially fly off the handle, and Bull isn't going to put stock in his _better nature_ until he has some sort of plan waiting in the wings. Just in case.

That run-in at breakfast is his first move, made while he waits for word back from the Ben-Hassrath on his most recent message: _Review him again._ By the time they write him back confirming their intel and requesting more, he already suspects that Talan is more susceptible to being lead psychologically when he's had a rough night, when nightmares have exhausted his normally keen mental defenses. After eavesdropping on his conversation with Dorian, Bull's confirmed that susceptibility and identified a handful of triggers to avoid and pressure points to lean on if he needs to. He doesn't have what he wants just yet, but it's a good start.

And Dorian, despite his reservations, is still on board. Bull has pressure points on the mage too, even if he doesn't particularly like digging his thumbs in. He much prefers digging his thumbs into other places, like he did the night after Talan's confession. Dorian counted it as a "decent effort at apologizing" and Bull counted it as a victory, watching the mage stiff-walking his way all across Skyhold the next day.

But tonight is a night off from both adventuring _and_ spying. Bull spends the better part of it knocking back drinks with his Chargers, watching Varric sweat Dalish over how her "bow" works and Krem fumble whenever that pretty blonde waitress asks him if he needs anything. No telling when he comes up for air, but his step is more of a stumble than anything as he heads outside - just a minute or two should be enough, a little bit of air in his lungs that isn't thick with body heat and noise. Bull scratches at his scruff and throws an idle look across the battlements, towards the distant mountains - onto the silhouette of someone hunched over themselves. If it weren't for the tight-fitting robes and the fact that he stands half a head above Skyhold's human population, Bull might not have recognized the Inquisitor at all.

Adaar is leaning bodily over the wall, and for a split second, Bull thinks he's going to fall - or jump. He's already got the Inquisitor pegged as a self-destructive neurotic, so suicidal ideation isn't all that unlikely in times of notable duress; considering the whole damn Inquisition could probably qualify for 'notable duress,' Bull's this close to hamstringing him with a thrown dagger before sound carries down to him on the breeze.

He's _puking._ Bull can't help a breathy little laugh from bubbling out of him, dagger slid back into the folds of his trousers as he heads for the stairs. Andraste's tits, he doesn't even want to think about trying to explain himself out of that one - _Sorry, I had to cripple the Inquisitor. Get Dorian down here, he'll fix it right up. No harm done, right Talan?_ Hell.

It isn't until he's closer that Bull realizes Adaar's coat is missing, a detail that gets his eyebrows climbing. Adaar "disliked" the cold in the way that the Qunari "didn't really get along with" the Imperium; in all his years undercover Bull had never seen an Orlesian who hated snow and chill so much, which made treks to the Emprise less than fun as a matter of course and downright _unbearable_ when they brought Dorian along. Things had gotten better once he'd commissioned what some around Skyhold called _the rug_ \- a Qunari-sized coat insulated with roughly half of Fereldan's fennec fox population, tailored to fit over his robes without unnecessary bulk - and ever since, he was almost never seen out at night without it. The last time it had happened, the Inquisitor had been busy pulling half a mountain down on Corypheus' vaguely overripe-looking head. Definitely worth noting, then, as Bull settles quietly at the mouth of the stairs, leaning against the wall as Talan finishes heaving up what was probably every meal he's had in the past _year._ When he seems finished, Bull speaks up - which was probably a bad move, considering Talan nearly shits his breeches.

"That'll teach you to drink anything Sera hands you, Boss."

Talan almost _does_ fall off the battlement this time, but his shoulders are just a little too wide - he's got room to catch himself, head snapping around, and Bull finds himself appreciating that brief unguarded look he gets before the scowl can soak in. It's fear, but it's instinctive, irrational; Talan isn't afraid of Bull, just afraid because his body tells him to be. Like the Ben-Hassrath recruit who watches their instructor take practice swings with the stick, or Dorian when Bull drops all pretenses and handles him as easily as a child's toy. It's not sadistic enjoyment, although Bull knows some would say so. He just likes the honesty of it.

"Maker's - heaving - _balls,_ what are you--" is promptly interrupted by a gag that Bull is thoughtful enough not to laugh at - and then a sick groan that he isn't, although he keeps it down to a chuckle. If looks could kill, Adaar would've put him down harder than any saar-qamek could with the glare he shoots back. "What do you _want?_ "

"Getting in close on the off chance Orlesian assassins poisoned your ale." Talan just _stares._ Bull waves him off with one massive hand, pleased that the Inquisitor is too hammered to ask how Bull knows he had ale earlier. (Talking about how to identify liquors and poisons from stomach contents isn't how he wants to spend his evening, thank you.) "Don't worry, they would've struck by now. If they're decent assassins, it would've been when I first got your attention."

"Oh." Talan pulls a face, then another breath. Bull is pleasantly surprised when the mage fends off the next wave of nausea, trembling woozily with his cheek against the wall. He's handsome when he's not wearing a suspicious squint, Bull notes, skin a lighter ashy-grey than his own, shock white hair pulled into a long braid that hangs over his shoulder. His eyes are just a few shades lighter than his pupils when he meets Bull's again - his teeth are straight and unbroken, unlike the ragged stubs just above his ears, and Bull can't help but imagine what both would feel like under his fingers. "What if they're shit assassins?"

"Then they'd hit when I was coming up the stairs. You would get the worst of it, they tend to go after the piss drunk ones first - dagger to the hamstring to keep you from running away, and the others would team up for me once I hit the top of the stairs. Probably try a mixed-tactic move, one throwing a neutralizing agent in my face and engaging in close combat while the other one went around back for my throat. Standard tactics when you're fighting a Qunari skirmisher. The last one would probably be a mage headhunter - mages trained specifically to disarm other mages instead of getting in dick-measuring firefights with them. They'd know how to drop your barriers and dodge your magic before coming in for the kill."

"...Oh." But Bull is pleased to see that Talan is rapt, fighting through the fog in his head to visualize the scene. He also crumpled into a sitting position at some point, making himself comfortable. "And that wouldn't work?"

"If it would, I wouldn't be telling you how to do it." Bull flashes a rakish grin, and Maker's heaving balls if Talan doesn't flush a ruddy pink right up to his horns. How far _down_ does it go? Talan is a thin-skin; would Bull be able to feel the rising heat under his tongue if he licked at his pulse, and what would he taste like? Clean like soap, a little bitter from where leather oil rubs against bare flesh? Salty from sweat? Sweet from those pricey, sticky Orlesian bath oils he quietly slips into their supply calls every few weeks?

No, none of that. Something, some _thing_ slides through Talan's expression like a shadow, dark and heady like Dwarven whiskey, and Bull realizes that he'd probably taste exactly the same - ozone and heat, a spark and a kick.

"I don't trust you, Ben-Hassrath."

"Yeah, I got that."

"But." Talan holds up a finger, stopping Bull before he goes any further. His eyebrows rise, but Talan just takes a long moment to steady himself through another wave of nausea, eyes shut - he cracks one open, tone serious as ever. "For what it's worth, I wouldn't let you be slaughtered by two-bit Orlesian knives-in-the-dark. When Thedas grows tired of the ox-man and his Inquisition and has us all killed, it will take nothing short of the entire House of Crows. Anything less is... insulting. I won't have it."

There's a long moment after that where Bull stares at the heap of drunken Qunari before him, as if gauging whether or not he heard that right - His Holiness Of The Inquisition And Arguably Andraste's Bosom, drunk as a skunk, not only confessing his fears of the future to the Qunari spy he doesn't trust, but trying to reassure (and apparently flatter) him?

This, from _Talan?_

After it's soaked in, Bull cracks a smile. Then he lets a little _heh_ slip out, and that's all it takes for the dam to break.

___

Cassandra has chosen her room in Skyhold very specifically - an outlier as far as habitable rooms go, it's a fair distance and a brisk walk along the battlements away from the main hold, and most people would despise it. She chose it because it's far enough away that she doesn't have to hear the chatter of visiting nobility all through the night, and because it's close to the courtyard below. Should anyone call for help or try to alert them to an attack, even if they can't manage a proper scream, she'll hear it. And anyway, she likes the walk.

She doesn't like her room so much tonight, when Iron Bull breaks into roaring laughter that booms through the courtyard and off every stone, nook, and crevice within a mile radius. Cassandra snaps awake in an instant - just faintly, she hears a _thud_ from the direction of Cullen's tower over the sound of her drawing sword, her voice building to a near-shout before she's even at the window.

"What in the Maker's name--"

But when she looks, there's nobody - not Iron Bull in the far corner of the battlements or below her room, just Varric swaggering his way away from the tavern and whistling a jaunty tune. His head snaps up when she shouts, glancing between her and the drawn sword for a moment. Then - of course - he finds his words.

"Morning, Seeker!" Her expression twists into pure, unadulterated _ugh_ as she throws another glance around the courtyard, but there's nothing. "Little early to be talking to the Maker, isn't it? There's devotion, and then there's just sucking up."

"Quiet. I was only - did you hear that?"

"'That'?"

"That _noise._ You must have heard it."

"All I've heard tonight is you." He's faking innocence, shrugging widely like he has no idea what she's talking about - Cassandra has to stop herself from grinding her teeth, sword drooping to her side. "Loud and clear, I might add."

A window slams open not that far away, and Cullen pokes his head out to join in. "Cassandra? What the hell are you two _doing_ at this hour?"

"The Seeker heard a noise."

"I heard a _shout._ Or something like it. I thought a dragonling might have tried to climb one of the watchtowers again." Cassandra looks to Cullen, squinting against the low light. "You're bleeding."

"I... tripped, it's nothing." He brushes at his nose quickly, scanning the courtyard. "I don't see any dragonlings, so I wager we're safe for the meantime. Whatever you two are doing can wait until morning, can't it?"

"We are not _doing_ anything." Cassandra leans further out of the window, palm balanced on the stone sill. "We should send a guard to walk the battlements, just in case. I would rather be safe."

"Of course. Send out a patrol shift for the night." Cullen scrubs at his face, along his jaw. He has that ridiculous fur coat of his thrown haphazardly over his shoulders, and he wraps it tighter around himself to fight the chill. "I heard it as well. Varric, are you certain you haven't--"

Another snapping windowsill.

" _Fasta vass,_ at this hour? _Really?_ "

Varric grins and ducks his head, setting off for the hold again. "And that's where I bow out. Foursomes never really work out for me."

"Varric--" Cullen starts, but he loses his train of thought when Cassandra snaps her own window shut with a disgusted noise to end all other disgusted noises. The dwarf waves a hand over his shoulder idly as he heads off - Dorian snaps his window shut, and after another bewildered moment, Cullen shuts his own with a mild groan.

"Maker."

___

Below, Varric makes a slight detour under one of Skyhold's many alcoves, whistling as he goes. This one in particular seems to have been made with time, when the fortress began to settle and sagged inwards between two buildings. He throws a casual glance inside on his way past, at the holiest of Heralds and the Iron Bull sitting inside, the former apparently having dozed off against the latter's beefy arm.

"Better get him inside before the patrol goes around." Bull grunts affirmatively and stands, arm slipping around Talan's waist and hefting him to his feet. The Inquisitor groans - Bull tosses Varric a gold to show his appreciation, and the dwarf slips off on his way. "Foot on the floor tonight, Inquisitor. Helps with the bedspins."

It isn't actually that hard to get Talan inside and to bed, although he has to be careful no one sees him slip into the Inquisitor's room with the man nearly comatose over his shoulder - he doesn't like the implications, and he doesn't think Talan would appreciate rumors about the ox-men _knocking horns._ When he slips up to his own room afterwards, he isn't surprised to see Dorian wrapped up in his sheets, looking positively ungainly with his ruffled hair and (though he'll never admit it) drooling. They're just a... whatever they are, so they keep their own rooms to have their own space when they need it, but it isn't unusual for Dorian to end up here. Bull undresses quietly, and when he sets his harness aside for tomorrow, something out of the ordinary catches his eye.

Talan's massive coat, folded over itself in clean lines on his end table. Shifting from the direction of the bed snaps him out of it, and when he finishes undressing and slides under the sheets, Dorian rolls over to tuck against his side.

"Next time, why don't you just sound the alarm? _That_ I can ignore. Half of Skyhold screaming across the grounds, on the other hand..."

Bull chuckles, dragging a thumb down the mage's side, circling his hip. He's thoughtful enough not to mention the shiver. "Yeah, sorry. The Inquisitor was busy telling me how he'd be pissed if I let cheap Orlesian assassins kill me."

"Well, so would I. If anyone is going to pull off assassinating us, it won't be coming cheap. A man has to have pride in the monetary value of his life, you know."

"Gotcha." Bull scratches at his bad eye, careful not to dip into the empty socket. "Get some sleep. Half of Skyhold's going to be pissed off tomorrow."

"And whose fault is that?" Bull nudges at him. _Go to sleep._ "Alright, alright. There's just... one thing."

Bull's been waiting. Dorian knows that he has been, and Maker's heaving balls if he doesn't feel a little like a spy himself right now, guilt and unease twisting in his chest. They may be going into this with the best intentions, but his pitiful attempt at sounding businesslike shows exactly how he feels.

"The Inquisitor gave me his coat earlier. You know, I think he nearly tried to kiss me."


End file.
